DAMIEN
I know it's been a long time coming
I'm angry and I know that's weak
I'm angry and I know that's weak
Her question hit with more weight than she probably meant it to. He knew what he’d ask for, had known for years, even if the shape of it had changed. But he didn’t answer right away.
Instead, his gaze lowered to his mug, watching the last streak swirl in the bottom. When he looked back up, something behind his eyes had shifted. Still sharp, still steady, but quieter now.
“Wouldn’t be anything grand. Not glory, not power,” he said eventually, voice low. A pause. His mouth quirked, just barely. “Probably a better bootknife,” he quipped, like he was tossing her a lifeline—or dodging one. “Mine’s got a loose handle.”
But there was something in the way he said it that suggested it wasn’t the real answer. Not all of it, anyway.
Damien watched her as she leaned forward, that subtle tilt of her chin both challenge and invitation. There was a flicker in her eyes; not quite mischief, not quite bravado, but something in between. She was young still, but not fragile. Never had been. Theea had always carried her own weight in silence and motion, same as him. There was something about the way the hearthlight caught her features—those keen eyes, the serious shape of her mouth—that reminded him of a fletched arrow just before it flew. Intent and beautiful and a little dangerous, if you weren’t paying attention.
He blinked, slow and deliberate, like her suggestion had caught him off guard in the best possible way. A chuckle pushed past his lips, soft and short. “Here?” he asked, the word edged with dry humor as he glanced toward the hearth, the patrons hunched over drinks, the antlers and tusks gleaming red-gold on the walls.
He rapped his knuckles lightly against the bar, as if testing it for sturdiness. “Could crack your skull on this thing just trying to dodge a jab.”
But he didn’t say no.
His eyes flicked back to her, and he found that same weight there—the spark, the dare, the way she’d nudged his boot like it was a drawn line in the snow. It wasn’t bravado. It was belief. And somehow that made it harder to turn down.
“I’m not promising I won’t embarrass myself,” he said, brushing a hand through his hair again. “But I’ll step outside with you." There was a pause—then a flicker of a smile that didn’t quite reach full expression. “Fair warning though. If I learn quick, you might be in trouble.”
He stood, mug abandoned and boots quiet on the floorboards, and gave a small gesture toward the door with his chin. “Lead the way, teacher.”
Instead, his gaze lowered to his mug, watching the last streak swirl in the bottom. When he looked back up, something behind his eyes had shifted. Still sharp, still steady, but quieter now.
“Wouldn’t be anything grand. Not glory, not power,” he said eventually, voice low. A pause. His mouth quirked, just barely. “Probably a better bootknife,” he quipped, like he was tossing her a lifeline—or dodging one. “Mine’s got a loose handle.”
But there was something in the way he said it that suggested it wasn’t the real answer. Not all of it, anyway.
Damien watched her as she leaned forward, that subtle tilt of her chin both challenge and invitation. There was a flicker in her eyes; not quite mischief, not quite bravado, but something in between. She was young still, but not fragile. Never had been. Theea had always carried her own weight in silence and motion, same as him. There was something about the way the hearthlight caught her features—those keen eyes, the serious shape of her mouth—that reminded him of a fletched arrow just before it flew. Intent and beautiful and a little dangerous, if you weren’t paying attention.
He blinked, slow and deliberate, like her suggestion had caught him off guard in the best possible way. A chuckle pushed past his lips, soft and short. “Here?” he asked, the word edged with dry humor as he glanced toward the hearth, the patrons hunched over drinks, the antlers and tusks gleaming red-gold on the walls.
He rapped his knuckles lightly against the bar, as if testing it for sturdiness. “Could crack your skull on this thing just trying to dodge a jab.”
But he didn’t say no.
His eyes flicked back to her, and he found that same weight there—the spark, the dare, the way she’d nudged his boot like it was a drawn line in the snow. It wasn’t bravado. It was belief. And somehow that made it harder to turn down.
“I’m not promising I won’t embarrass myself,” he said, brushing a hand through his hair again. “But I’ll step outside with you." There was a pause—then a flicker of a smile that didn’t quite reach full expression. “Fair warning though. If I learn quick, you might be in trouble.”
He stood, mug abandoned and boots quiet on the floorboards, and gave a small gesture toward the door with his chin. “Lead the way, teacher.”
And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek
For whatever it is I seek
